


yiken

by deliveryservice



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Frat Boy Kuroo, M/M, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliveryservice/pseuds/deliveryservice
Summary: The record of how Kei Tsukishima managed to find love in the boy who lent him his shirt after he had beer spilled all over his at his first college party, courtesy of Yamaguchi Tadashi and Hinata Shouyou.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! this is the first time i've ever written for haikyuu so i hope i don't get the characters too off (and if i do, i promise it'll get better as i get a better grasp on them). this is basically the frat boy kurotsukki au because i just had to do it? tags will be added as the story progresses, i hope you'll enjoy the ride!

When his parents told him to make new experiences in college, Kei is sure they hadn’t meant ‘get dragged to a frat party _on the third day of the semester._ ’ Still: This is what happens, and Kei Tsukishima finds himself staring up at a house bursting with light and frat party music, his phone gripped at his side and murder on his mind.

Namely, committing murder on a certain orange-head named Hinata Shouyou, who’d dragged Yamaguchi to the party, who had, in turn, begged Kei to accompany him because he didn’t want to go alone.

He could’ve been at home, listening to the latest release from his favorite band. Instead, he’s here, listening to music that leaves his head pounding from how all-over-the-place it is that makes him want to tear out his own ear. Hinata Shouyou is going to _pay_. 

“Thanks for coming here with me, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says, nervously twisting the hem of his shirt. Kei’s scowl softens, _just_ slightly, because now his friend’s going to think it’s him Kei’s pissed at.

“Let’s just go inside,” he says instead, tugging both his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. It’s only September, but the fall wind is cold and biting enough that Kei thinks only idiots would go around outside without a jacket. He’s already dreading the coming winter.

Inside isn’t any better than outside, not that this comes as a surprise to Kei. He may have never been to a frat party before, but somehow, this ticks the list of everything he’d expected. The music is louder inside than it’d been outside, the smell of beer and weed clutter the air like smog, and the throng of people dancing and crowding around each other only makes him regret his decision even more. He doesn’t even know _why_ Yamaguchi wanted to go to a party like this: To Kei, the Wednesday night would’ve been better spent curled up in his dorm, but Kei doesn’t always understand Yamaguchi, even when they’ve been friends for a good decade, now.

“Oi, Yamaguchi!”

Speaking of the true culprit. Kei’s eyes narrow as Hinata bounces over to them, his cheeks tinged red with the flush from alcohol and his tank top clinging to his sweat-laden skin. Kei wrinkles his nose, and tries taking a step back to put further distance between them—only to find _oh_ , he _can’t_ , because there are already people dancing right behind him, and some guy tries to tug Kei into the dance.

Kei turns around to direct the full force of his ire to the poor soul, who quickly retracts his hand with a pale, shaken face. Good.

“Glad to see you could make it!” Hinata beams, and Yamaguchi smiles back, shaky and hesitant. Hinata, as if spotting Yamaguchi’s hesitance to be here, quickly grabs him by his wrist, ignoring Yamaguchi’s startled yelp. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Bokuto, he’s my big!”

Before Kei manages to get a single word into the exchange, like ‘Yamaguchi isn’t going anywhere with you, shrimpy, he’s going to be here with _me_ ,’ because Yamaguchi is really the only reason why Kei’s even present in the first place, the annoying, orange ball of energy has already dragged him off to God-knows-where, Yamaguchi’s muffled protests quickly fading and their figures eclipsed by the crowd that immediately replaces their spots, leaving Kei standing alone in the middle of strangers he doesn’t—and is not planning to—know.

Kei scowls. He could just go home, but he doesn’t know if Hinata—that _idiot_ , pain in the ass—will even be able to get Yamaguchi home later instead of leaving him the moment he spots more of his friends. Kei can’t stand the fact that he cares this much, but he takes easy comfort in the fact Yamaguchi is the only person he’d feel this concerned over; if it were anyone else, Kei wouldn’t care less before walking home and pretending the night had never happened. But this isn’t anyone else, so Kei reluctantly drags his feet towards the corner of the main room, squeezing his way past the crowd just to find a single moment of reprieve.

Even so, it’s not _really_ reprieve, but Kei pointedly ignores the couple making out right next to him by pulling out his phone and opening the first app his eyes latch onto. 

…It’s the news app, but at least it isn’t settings.

The news are depressing, even as he only skims over headlines, his thumb impatiently scrolling down his screen. Still, paying attention to that’s still a better option than the alternative—actually _involving himself in the party_ , yeah right—and Kei thinks he may actually be able to survive the night this way until he feels cold wetness slide down his shirt.

Kei glances down, and his eyes widen when he feels more than sees the murky print on his wet shirt, and then the red cup that’s clattered on the floor. Who the _fuck_ splashed beer down his shirt?

“Oh my god,” someone says. Kei looks up, so close to _seething_ , to see the person who’d actually _dropped beer down Kei’s shirt._ It’s a girl with a horrified look on her face, both her hands covering her gaping lips, and some of the beer had gotten on her red pumps; still, what she had on her was considerably less than the spillage that had ruined Kei’s white shirt, and Kei wishes he’d never gone to this party at all, Yamaguchi or not.

“I can fix this,” the girl stammers, and reaches into her purse to look for something. Not finding it, she makes a distressed sound, and moves to wipe her palm on Kei’s soaked shirt. Nope, not happening. Kei moves out of the way, so that her palm meets air, and scowls down at her. He’s easily taller, even when she isn’t bending down to try cleaning his shirt, and if there’s something Kei’s height is useful for, it’s for intimidating people away.

“Please leave,” Kei bites out, and even keeping an image of civility is something he’s doing by the skin of his throat. Kei is a naturally antagonistic person: On a regular occasion, he wouldn’t think twice before addressing someone with barely contained contempt—he has personality problems, as one of his seniors had pointed it out, and Kei finds he doesn’t care enough to change—but she looks miserable enough that Kei’s (admittedly small, most of the times barely there) conscience is telling him to be a little _less_ of an ass in this situation.

The girl opens her mouth, presumably to say _another_ apology, when Kei’s gaze is drawn to the boy standing behind her. He’s tall, tall enough that Kei’s heigh wouldn’t intimidate him too, and he looms over the girl’s shoulder with a smile, showing a row of teeth, that could only be described as predatory.

Involuntarily, Kei feels a shiver run down his spine.

“It’s okay, Annie, I’ll take it from here,” Mystery Boy drawls—not _says_ , but _drawls_ —pushing the girl away by her shoulder, and instead of a stuttering mess of a girl in front of him, Kei has this guy instead. 

He kind of wishes the girl was back, instead of him, because Kei knows how to handle nervous, bumbling girls; he does _not_ know how to handle tall, tan guys with dark hair styled in a way that _has_ to be gelled. Kei thinks he might be older; he does not know anyone else his age who carries himself with the same amount of swagger and confidence as he does, and he leers down at Kei with the same grin he’d worn back when he’d just entered the scene. Kei hates how his mouth goes dry, hates even more how his eyes linger on his muscled arms, barely concealed by his black shirt, for a second too long for it to be appropriate.

(Hates how he notices, too, if the way his leer only grows wider is of any indication.)

“You’ve got yourself in a sticky situation,” he says, looking like he wants to laugh at his own pun.

Kei decides, right there and then, that he hates him, attractive or not. Actually, he might even hate him more _because_ he’s attractive.

“And what’s that got to do with you?” Kei sneers, looking down on him in contempt. An insult rests on the tip of his tongue, but Kei doesn’t want to be the first to break his cool between the two of them.

“Nothing at all!” He has the audacity to chirp, and before Kei can say anything else, like a retort along the lines of _why don’t you fuck off, then?_ , the guy is tearing off his shirt, and handing the crumpled heap Kei’s way. “Here, take mine. I know firsthand beer gets too sticky if you let it stay that way too long. You should get your stomach cleaned, though.” He pauses, and smiles at Kei. “Want me to do it for you?”

“I don’t need your help,” Kei says, refusing to accept the shirt. He’s even more staunch in his resistance to the latter half of the offer, making sure he’s wearing his most twisted frown; the same frown that gets people to back away from him, if they ever get too close and he needs his personal space. “And I don’t want your shirt, either.”

The guy doesn’t let himself be fazed by Kei’s frosty rejection, instead shrugging and making no move to put his shirt back on. Instead, he folds his shirt in half, and hangs it over Kei’s shoulder. Kei freezes. “Well, you’ve got it anyway in case you change your mind. I’ll be playing beer pong on the second floor.”

And then he’s gone, with one last grin thrown over his shoulder, leaving Kei alone with a very, very _annoyingly_ sticky shirt that clings to his stomach, and a clean-ish change of clothes hung over his shoulder. Kei’s pride is a prickle point: If the guy were still there, Kei wouldn’t have bothered even considering changing his shirt, and would have no qualms throwing it on the floor before walking away and going home where he could change into his _own_ clothes. But since the guy is gone, and he only feels disgusted when he looks down on his own stomach, Kei grimaces, and heads for the bathroom with the black shirt still in tow.

Kei’s frown deepens when he notices the liquid stuck to his stomach, even after he’s peeled off his shirt; so Kei takes some tissues, damps it with water before pressing it over his skin, cleaning off the residue. He tries not to think about what _he’d_ been thinking of when he offered to clean it for him, and slides on the other boy’s shirt, afterwards, noting how it, surprisingly, doesn’t smell like crap. There’s a slightly stale scent to it that tells of sweat, but it’s not as bad as Kei had been expecting, and begrudgingly, Kei realizes if he bumps into the boy again, he’ll have to thank him.

That just means Kei has to make sure they won’t see each other again. It’s a big campus—bumping into the same person twice, when they don’t share the same classes as you, doesn’t seem very likely, so Kei takes solace in knowing that. It’s not as if he’s ever going to have to return the boy’s shirt… right?

* * *

Kei wonders if he’s pissed off a god, because just as he’d begun to think he would never see the boy from the party again, he does.

(Not that he’d be surprised if he’s ever made a god angry. Kei doesn’t have the most agreeable of personalities, and he’s overheard Yamaguchi saying once to Hinata that Kei is an acquired taste. While that wouldn’t be the exact same analogy Kei would’ve used to describe himself, he thinks, reluctantly, that Yamaguchi isn’t _wrong_.)

It happens on the day of his first shift at the library. Kei had taken on the job because living on campus isn’t always cheap and he wants to make sure he gets his meals proper and balanced, unlike _some_ people (namely Hinata and Kageyama who live right down his hall) who stuff themselves full with instant, pre-processed food because they can’t cook. Even though that’s what Kei wants, though, it’s much easier said than done: Proper ingredients are expensive, and Kei knows living off his scant allowance from his parents (and Akiteru) won’t be enough.

So he checks out the campus site for jobs, and finds an opening working in one of the libraries; it pays well, and he’s allowed to come in between, or before and after classes, and the flexibility is the thing that’d gotten Kei to apply as soon as he saw it. He’d started as soon as he was able to, and looking back at it now, out of all the places he thought he could’ve bumped into the boy from the party again, he’d never considered their second meeting place to be the library—but it is, and it _does_ happen.

Kei had been sitting at his desk, quietly shifting through the returned books and making notes of which would go where, when the clearing of someone’s throat breaks him from his concentration. Annoyed, Kei glances up, ready to bite out a forced cordial _can I help you?_ , when all the words he’d been meaning to say die like wilted roses the moment he realizes who it is.

It’s the boy from the party, glancing down at Kei with a familiar leer that leaves Kei scowling. He looks… exactly the same as he did in the party, actually, even with different clothing; his hair is exactly the same (so it’s not just something he does for parties), and he’s wearing clothes that makes him look like he should be hanging out somewhere at a gym instead of a library. 

Kei bites back a deeper scowl, though he doesn’t hold back on his glower. “Can I help you?”

“Shit, I’d recognize that scowl anywhere. It _is_ you!” He sounds entirely too gleeful about this, eyes brightening with mirth that makes Kei want to tell him to fuck off and leave him out of whatever it is he might be planning. “You’re the guy from the party, right? The one who borrowed my shirt?”

“I didn’t borrow your shirt, you _forced_ me to take it.”

He waves it off. “Same difference. So, it’s you. You never came up to the second floor.”

“What makes you think I would’ve wanted to?”

“Call it misguided intuition.” Much to Kei’s annoyance, he has the audacity to grin. Kei wants to knee him and call it a day. “So, were you planning on giving me my shirt back?”

“What makes you think I still have it?”

“Well, it wasn’t there on the floor when I went back to check.” He shrugs, and props his elbow up against the counter, resting his chin above his palm. “So, I figured you’ve got to have it with you.”

This is the last situation Kei wants to be in. He wishes he’d never taken the shift today in the library, wishes he’d never bumped into mystery guy again. But Kei wishes for a lot of things, and he never receives them, anyway, so it’s not like this is any different. “When do you want it back?” Kei asks. “I’ve washed it.”

“I was joking.” His brows furrow, and his smile turns just a little bit sharper. “You can keep it. In exchange for my shirt, I’d like to know your name.”

“I never said I’d take your shirt, dumbass.” Kei frowns, and his words go entirely ignored.

“I’m Kuroo Tetsurou,” the guy—no, _Kuroo_ —says, offering his hand for Kei to shake.

Kei takes one look at it, and sneers.

“I’m not giving you my name, and I’m giving you your shirt back as soon as I can.”

Kuroo pouts. It doesn’t suit him.

* * *

Much to Kei’s chagrin, even after he starts carrying Kuroo's shirt in his bag with him whenever he goes to the library just so he can return it and have him stop pestering him, Kuroo doesn’t show up again. For several days, Kei wonders if Kuroo had decided to leave him alone, and hates how that makes him both happy and somehow… disappointed? Although he doesn’t understand why he’d be disappointed. He doesn’t like Kuroo Tetsurou’s presence: Kuroo Tetsurou is an annoying, pain in the ass, and all Kei wants to do is to glare at him until the asshole cowers. (Not that it’ll ever happen, but Kei can dream.)

And then the day of his first volleyball practice comes—because Kei had somehow, maybe _stupidly_ , impulsively, signed up for his college’s volleyball team out of curiosity while he was running on caffeine—and of _course_ it happens on the day that Kei has stopped stuffing Kuroo’s shirt in his bag that he meets him again.

“Tsukki, do you know him?” Yamaguchi asks, when he notices Kei shooting daggers behind Kuroo’s back, where the boy is practicing—he’s a blocker, Kei realizes, and it isn’t with a small dose of uncharacteristic envy when he realizes Kuroo isn’t just a blocker, he’s a _good_ one.

“No,” Kei lies. Yamaguchi looks at him, and Kei doesn’t look away, but shakes his head; he’s not lying to Yamaguchi. Just because he’s talked to Kuroo twice doesn’t mean he knows him. (Kei wishes he could really believe this.)

“Okay,” Yamaguchi says, dropping the matter. “Should we do stretches? I think practice starts soon!”

“They’ll make us do stretches again when practice starts, we don’t have to do it now.”

“Oh, right! You’re so smart, Tsukki!”

It’s in that moment Kuroo pauses in his practice to look at his back, and his eyes widen when he notices Kei is there; then the look is replaced by a haughty grin, and Kei wants nothing more than to march there and to rip the grin off his lips. Kei, of course, does not show any of this; he ‘tch’s and sneers, choosing to look away from Kuroo and instead focusing his attention on Yamaguchi.

Maybe that’ll be enough to drop Kuroo’s attention.

(Of course, it isn’t.)

“Well, well, well,” Kuroo drawls, and all of the sudden, he’s right next to Kei, preening at him carefully. Kei rolls his eyes. “If it isn’t the guy who hasn’t returned my shirt!” 

Yamaguchi gasps, gaping at Kei as he hears this particular tidbit of information.

“It’s not what you think,” Kei says, quick to correct Kuroo’s words that have garnered them attention from _all around the court_. “Someone spilled a drink on my shirt and he lent me his. That’s it.”

Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind Kei clearing up what he’d meant, instead choosing to cross his arms across his chest, glancing between Kei and Yamaguchi. “So, the two of you are in the volleyball club?” He directs this question to Yamaguchi, most likely having inferred that he wouldn’t be getting any information asking Kei. He isn’t wrong.

Yamaguchi nods, quick and hasty at the same time, recognizing when he’s being spoken to by a senior. “Y-Yes!” He stutters, and gestures at himself and Kei. “My name is Yamaguchi Tadashi, and this is Tsukishima Kei.”

“Kei, huh,” Kuroo drawls, looking at Kei with a contemplative look.

Kei glares. “Don’t call me that.” How _dare_ he just call Kei by his first name like that?

Kuroo raises both of his hands in a sign of good will, laughing. “I was kidding, Tsukishima. It’s nice to meet the both of you, officially. Welcome to the volleyball club.” At this, he smiles like he knows something Kei doesn’t—and when Kei _does_ find out what it is, he wishes he’d never known. 

“I’m your captain. I look forward to working with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

_You have_ got _to be kidding me,_ Kei wants to say, hearing those words come out of Kuroo’s mouth. This can’t be it. He can’t be their captain. Except, Kei remembers the confidence Kuroo carries himself with, remembers the way he’d expertly blocked the spikes during his practice before official practice; and realizes that _yes_ , it is entirely possible that Kuroo Tetsurou is his captain, and the person Kei has been annoyed with, all this time, has been his future captain. 

Kei doesn’t care too much about honoring his captain, or anything like that. Even back in high school, he’d never reserved any sort of automatic respect; no one was exempt from Kei’s scathing, snide remarks, simply because Kei didn’t care enough to make exemptions for anyone but Yamaguchi—so maybe, this doesn’t change _too_ much, but it still changes something, and Kei is still figuring out what that something is.

“So you’re the captain,” Kei remarks, taking into account how Kuroo’s brows furrow slightly, before he nods with something that Kei’s come to categorize as his trademark grin—a mix of a smirk and a grin, coupled with a leer that might’ve been intimidating for anyone else, but not Kei. “I look forward to working with you, too, _Captain_.” Two can play at this game, and Kei has never been one to back down so easily.

Yamaguchi looks between the two of them like he’s missing something, and he is: Kei never told him about the guy who’d lent him his shirt, mostly because Yamaguchi never noticed, and Kei doesn’t know if it’d been something that would’ve warranted a conversation. It was just a shirt. It was just one person Kei thought he’d never see again unless in passing, only to find out that he was _completely_ wrong about that, which… Kei would’ve figured he’d hate it, but for some reason, the negative emotions that usually would’ve come to him so easily are slippery in his grasp.

He tries not to think about what that means.

“You a blocker?” Kuroo asks, and it takes Kei a moment to realize he’s talking to Kei.

“Yeah,” Kei says. 

“Come practice with me, then.”

He doesn’t leave Kei much of a choice, tugging him by his wrist to where he’d been practicing with his friends. Kei doesn’t even get to say something about Yamaguchi, because Kuroo’s quick to dump him to his friends, and then Kei’s struggling to pick up everyone’s names. Kei’s good at memorization, but it’s one thing to take his time and it’s another entirely to have a row of names hitting you squarely across the face.

“That’s Bokuto, we’ll be practicing against his spikes.”

“Hey, hey, hey! You think you can block me, huh?” If Kuroo leers, Bokuto is an imitation of what Kuroo does, except on him, the look is more comical than it is impactful; his hair sticks out everywhere, and Kei notes, with more than a little bit of mortification, that Bokuto reminds him of Hinata Shouyou—except _much_ , much bigger, and only almost as loud. “We’ll see about that!”

“Then there’s Akaashi.” Kuroo jerks his thumb at the setter who’s standing next to Bokuto, and Kei relaxes fractionally at the sight of someone who looks normal. He nods Kei’s way, offering a quiet greeting, and Kei decides, right then and there, Akaashi is his favorite amongst the three of them. “He’s the setter.”

“Nice to meet you,” Akaashi says.

Kei returns this with a nod.

“So, did you play volleyball in high school?” Bokuto asks, stretching his arms above his head. “The three of us have been playing since then, or even before. I’m on an athletic scholarship!”

_Yes, I can see that,_ Kei thinks. “I’ve played since middle school,” Kei says, with the fakest smile he has. Bokuto doesn’t seem to realize Kei’s smile is fake—unsurprising—as his eyes light up and he presses his face closely against the net separating him and Akaashi from Kei and Kuroo, with a look that could be accurately described as ‘starry-eyed.’

“Really? You’re pretty good, then?!”

Kei shrugs. He’s always been decent at volleyball, but doesn’t feel particularly strongly about it one way or another—he doesn’t even know why he’d applied for the volleyball club in the first place, in college, when he could’ve easily put an end to that in high school and chosen a different club instead. But there was a voice that sounded suspiciously like Akiteru encouraging him to give it a shot, and here he is, wishing he’d told the voice to fuck off and had chosen another club like archaeology. 

“We’ll have to see about that,” Kuroo says, grinning. And then the practice starts, and Kei realizes he’s a little out of his league.

Bokuto is, surprisingly, really good. His spikes hit _hard_ , and Kei’s glowers do nothing to hinder his performance. Kei’s already thinking about the way he’ll have to bandage his hands after today’s practice, and wonders if it’s too late for him to quit the club when he’s already acquainted with at least three other members who aren’t Yamaguchi. Akaashi is a good setter, too, every one of his sets hitting Bokuto’s palm perfectly like the two were made to play together. 

And then there’s Kuroo, who Kei has to admit, _very_ begrudgingly, is _good_. Though Kei tries to pull his weight when blocking, there’s no denying that Kuroo ends up blocking the bulk of Bokuto’s shots, his technique sharpened and polished the way Kei’s isn’t. Kei has his height going for him, and he can make predictions when he’s paying attention to the ball, but it’s not at all like Kuroo’s talent; not _only_ can he see where Bokuto’s going to spike, he also stops the ball, oftentimes blocking it fully, unlike Kei who has only managed to block Bokuto’s spikes a handful of times.

Being reminded he’s out of his league is frustrating, and Kei doesn’t know—doesn’t _like—_ why he cares so much about volleyball. It’s only a club activity, after all.

“So, uh,” Kuroo says, when they’re all taking a break. He tosses Kei a water bottle, and Kei accepts it, even if he’d actually carried his own in his bag that he’d left in the locker room. “You kinda suck.”

Kei doesn’t blanch, because that’s just not what Kei does. He does, however, put on his snidest smile. “I’m sorry I don’t hold up to the likes of you and your friends. After all, I only play volleyball casually. It’s just a game to me.”

Kuroo, for all he’d shown himself to be unbothered by Kei’s general Kei-ness, does recoil at that, and Kei wonders if he should pull out his special brand of fake niceties more often if it has that effect. It’s very satisfying for Kei to see he’d been able to make Kuroo hesitate, for one.

“Shit, um. That’s not what I meant,” Kuroo quickly corrects. Kei looks at him in barely hidden contempt, his own nonverbal way of asking _so what_ did _you mean?_ “Sorry, that came out wrong.” He rubs his nape, and tries a slow, lazy smile directed to Kei. Kei doesn’t return it, still staring at Kuroo almost ominously. “You want some pointers?”

Kei shrugs. That can’t hurt, even if he’s not particularly pleased with how Kuroo managed to regain control of the conversation that easily. “Okay.”

Volleyball practice shouldn’t require Kuroo to put his hands all over Kei, saying something about how he wants to correct Kei’s form and placing his palms over Kei’s shoulders. Kei stiffens, and Kuroo’s grip loosens, his hands moving to hover over Kei instead. “Sorry, is that not okay?”

Kei grits his teeth. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead.” Like _hell_ he’s going to lose.

Kuroo puts his hands back on Kei, slowly, like he’s giving Kei the time to take it back and say no—Kei doesn’t. He reaches for Kei’s arms, positioning them slightly higher than Kei’s used to when he’s blocking. Then his hands are on Kei’s, gently prying his fingers to curl downwards instead of letting them stay straightened.

“Okay,” Kuroo says, his breath tickling down Kei’s neck. Kei only realizes how close they are, now, and he doesn’t dare turn around, lest he accidentally _kiss_ Kuroo. Kuroo’s chest is just millimeters away from pressing against Kei’s back, the length of his arms brushing past Kei’s shoulders. He’s radiating warmth, a complete 180 from Kei’s cool body temperature. “Try making this form when you block, next time. Want to give it a shot?”

Kei doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

“Alright.” Kuroo finally lets go of him, and Kei releases the breath he’d been holding. If his heart rate is spiking, nobody knows but him. “Bokuto, come over here!”

Whether Kei’s more disappointed or relieved that Bokuto ruins whatever the fuck _that_ was, it doesn’t change the fact Kuroo’s guidance was helpful; instead of just blocking Bokuto a handful of times, Kei’s improvement in just a change in his form and Kuroo’s pointers from next to him come in leaps and bounds, and the practice ends in Kei’s introduction to Bokuto’s comically down, sulky mood. Kei laughs at his face.

“Oh, right,” Kuroo mentions, once practice has wrapped up and Kei was just about ready to bolt out of the gym. “Don’t forget about my shirt—though I meant what I said, if you wanted to keep it, _Tsukki_.”

Unfortunately, he says this when the rest of their teammates are still around, and considering Bokuto had been in earshot, he gasps, very loudly, and says at the top of his lungs, “ARE YOU TWO SLEEPING TOGETHER?!”

“Fuck off, Kuroo,” Kei grits through his teeth, and if looks could kill, both Kuroo _and_ Bokuto would be six feet under, by now. 

“Oh my god,” Bokuto’s saying, still looking between Kuroo and Kei with all the subtlety of a twelve-year-old boy. “You _totally_ did.”

“We didn’t!” Kei denies, and absolutely _hates_ how instead of shying or paling at the sight of his glare, Kuroo’s smirk only widens, like this is exactly the outcome he’d been trying to create. Asshole. “I’m not desperate enough to fuck _him_.”

“But you would, if you were?” Kuroo purrs, and Kei chucks his towel at Kuroo’s face.

Infuriatingly, Kuroo catches the towel, and tugs it back around Kei’s shoulders. 

“See ‘ya later, Tsukki.”

* * *

“No.”

“Please, Tsukki? I don’t want to go alone…”

“That’s what you said last time, and you managed to find the shrimp. I’m not coming to the party.”

“Tsukki…” Yamaguchi pleads, directing the full force of what is probably his best imitation of the pleading face emoji Kei’s way. Kei is, however, immune to many things, and this is one of them. “Hinata told me he won’t be able to accompany me this time, since this is his party and he wants to be fair with everyone else he invited.”

“Who else did he invite?”

Yamaguchi’s face brightens, as if Kei has already said yes. Kei immediately regrets his life decisions. “He didn’t give me the full list, but I know some of our mutual friends are going to be there!”

“ _Your_ friends.”

“The other members of the frat will be there too! I think Kuroo-san was the one helping him organize the party…?”

This is when Kei Tsukishima should have said no. He should’ve said no to Yamaguchi, refused to hear him out further, and never go to the party (therefore, lessening his chances of bumping into Kuroo); however, sometimes Kei does stupid things. He doesn’t like admitting that it _happens_ , but it does, and in this occasion the stupid thing is not turning Yamaguchi down right at this moment.

Instead of saying no, Kei begrudgingly nods, frowning all the while, and pretends he’s just doing this to accompany Yamaguchi; that he doesn’t have, at all, any ulterior motives involving Kuroo Tetsurou—none at _all_.

* * *

The party is thrown at the same place at the first, at the fraternity house that Kei wishes he’d never stepped foot in before at all. Kei wonders if it’s too late to back out—it’s true that he’ll be leaving Yamaguchi alone, _but_ , there’s the added bonus of not having to see Kuroo Tetsurou should he leave right now.

It’s not like it’s even guaranteed they’ll bump into each other, but Kei has a bad feeling. Kei has never been particularly superstitious, but he’s learned that there are times when you just need to trust your gut.

Kei hopes he’s wrong this time.

“Thanks for coming with me, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says, nervously tugging on the hem of his shirt. Hinata must’ve set him up to his current attire, because Yamaguchi dresses like he actually _belongs_ : A tight-fitting tank top and shorts that show off more of Yamaguchi’s legs than Kei ever wanted to see (he hates that rinsing his eyes isn’t a viable option), a pink bandana tied around his head. Has Kei really been having too much time for himself that Yamaguchi’s been hanging around Hinata too much—enough that he’s even dressing like him—lately?

“Yeah, whatever.” Kei has a sense of deja vu, and hopes tonight won’t end in him getting beer struck down his shirt. Again. “I’m getting a drink.”

“I’ll come with you!”

Kei waves him off, shaking his head. Yamaguchi’s face falls. “I’ll get some for you, too. Just stay here.” Or not. Kei wouldn’t be surprised if he came back to Yamaguchi chatting with their other classmates, because surprise, surprise, Yamaguchi’s already started making friends with their new college mates while Kei has been doing an excellent job pushing them away.

He doesn’t need them, anyway.

The assortment of drinks are an overkill for a college party, and Kei doesn’t even know half of the things they’re serving. He goes for two generic red cups, noticing they’re jello shots—his nose wrinkles in distaste, but it’s not _beer_ , and he takes them. Making his way through the crowd is no easier the second time around than it was the first, mostly because there seems to be even _more_ people here, and Kei does awkward manoeuvres to get away from bodies grinding on the dance floor. Yamaguchi had _better_ still be there when he gets back, or else, long-standing friendship or not, Kei’s going to be pissed.

Thankfully, Yamaguchi’s still there, though he’s talking to a girl from one of their classes together—Yachi, Kei remembers. He approaches them, drinks in hand, and wordlessly hands one over to Yamaguchi. Yachi glances between the two of them like a deer caught in headlights, looking so terrified Kei wouldn’t be surprised if she spontaneously combusted right here and then, that it makes him sigh.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” he mutters, rolling his eyes and walking away even through Yamaguchi’s half-hearted protests. 

He isn’t stupid: He knows the way Yamaguchi looks at Yachi, knows that his best friend has an obvious crush. Kei doesn’t see the appeal, personally—Yachi is cute, but that’s all there is to it. Kei doesn’t find it attractive how she seems to cower every time she sees him, never-minding that may have been his own fault for barely bothering with niceties for anyone he doesn’t even know.

(What _does_ Kei find attractive, then?

His head flashes the thought of a tall body with tanned skin, skin flushed pink from hours of volleyball practice, sweat glistening down their arm; then the body has a face to go with it, too, and Kei’s thinking of Kuroo Tetsurou with his annoying quips and smirks, and Kei downs that thought with a shot.

His throat barely burns.)

Kei doesn’t realize where his legs are carrying him until he’s found himself standing behind a cheering crowd, his drink empty in his hand. “Shots, shots, shots!” the crowd jeers, and it’s morbid curiosity leading Kei to shove past the crowd to see what’s happening.

If asked, later, Kei would say he _really_ hadn’t known what he’d been expecting. Whatever it was, though, he’s left unprepared at the sight of Kuroo Tetsurou doing a body shot off a girl Kei’s seen several times around campus, Kuroo’s lips sucking in the liquor from her belly button before his tongue licks a trail upwards on her stomach.

Kuroo takes his time, every swipe of his tongue slow but purposeful, and Kei can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, even as his cup’s been crushed in his tightened grip. Kuroo’s lapping his tongue on the little spot beneath the girl’s cleavage when his eyes glance up and he sees Kei standing in the crowd, and before Kei can turn around and pretend he’d never seen him, Kuroo’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and heading Kei’s way.

There’s nowhere for Kei to run; and more than that, Kei doesn’t _want_ to run. Walking away feels like losing this—whatever this is going on between them, and Kei has never thought of himself as competitive, or stubborn, but something about Kuroo Tetsurou brings out these different sides in him.

He can feel everyone’s eyes on the two of them when Kuroo stops in front of him, the crowd waiting with bated breath for something: A fight? Another body shot?

“Didn’t think I’d see you here again,” Kuroo purrs. Kei notices his lips are still wet. “Not that I’m complaining, though. Did you come with someone?”

“Yamaguchi,” Kei says. 

“Hm. Are you together?”

“What, Yamaguchi and I?” Kei’s nose wrinkles. Yamaguchi is his best friend—and he’s, okay, Kei’s sure he’d make a great boyfriend to someone (maybe Yachi, if his friend managed to get his shit together), but him and Yamaguchi? Kei doesn’t know if he can see that happening, at all. “No.” And, before he can bite his tongue, “How about you? You’re with her?”

Kuroo’s smile sharpens. Kei doesn’t blush, but it’s a close thing. “Cindy and I are just friends. Isn’t that right, Cin?” The girl, just now standing up from the table, shoots them a thumbs up and a wink. Funny—Kei can’t see himself doing body shots off a friend, but then again, Kei and Kuroo are so different at parties that they might as well be on the opposite ends of a spectrum. “So, just so you know, I’m available.”

“I’m not interested,” Kei lies.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Kuroo shrugs. “Dude, what’d your drink ever do to you?”

Kei looks down, and sees the crumpled heap that’d been his red plastic cup. He blinks, because when did _that_ happen?

His bewilderment must’ve shown on his face, because Kuroo laughs before slinging an arm around Kei’s shoulders, guiding them to the nearest beverage table. “Come on, let’s get you some more drinks.”

The only reason why Kei doesn’t protest is because only taking one jello shot, at a frat party, is downright humiliating—it’s definitely not because Kuroo’s arms feel nice and warm, and it’s most definitely _not_ because he actually likes being close to Kuroo.

“What do you want?” Kuroo asks, proudly showing off the row of drinks. Considering the expectant look Kei spies in his eyes, Kei wouldn’t put it past him to have helped mix them.

“Anything but beer’s fine.”

“Vodka, then!” Kuroo chirps, taking a mix of orange juice and vodka and handing it over to Tsukki, who takes a careful sip; he does not look at Kuroo with his cup hanging over his lips, instead opting to stare at the cracks on the ceiling. “So, did you bring my shirt?”

“No.”

“Why not? You really wanted to keep it, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to meet you here, asshole.”

Kuroo puts on a fake wounded expression, crossing a hand over his heart. “That one _hurt_ , Tsukki, it really did,” he says, in a way that makes it obvious it really hadn’t hurt. “Have you ever done body shots before?”

“ _No_ , and I don’t want you to do them on me.”

“Wasn’t gonna ask, I was just curious.” Kuroo laughs. “I bet you wish you hadn’t come.”

“I’d hoped it wasn’t too obvious,” Kei says with a smile, one that says he’s glad it’d been obvious. “Are you going to shoo me away from your property?” He asks in a sing-song voice, and hates how instead of annoyed, Kuroo’s grin only widens.

“Hell no,” Kuroo says, and carefully reaches to lace his fingers with Kei’s. Kei nearly snatches his hand away, except Kuroo’s hand actually feels very nice and warm, although they aren’t very soft; his palms are rough from volleyball and other sports, but the texture, instead of being off-putting, is comforting. Hesitantly, Kei grips his fingers back, and is rewarded by the sight of a surprised Kuroo, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

Kei decides he likes that look—not because he likes _Kuroo_ , but because it’s fun seeing someone usually so cool and _annoying_ get so flustered.

For once, Kei feels like he’s winning in their little game.

“Do you want to dance?”

Caught in the moment, and refusing to lose his footing anymore, Kei nods.

Dancing with Kuroo is, unexpectedly, fun; Kei’d been expecting lazy, dirty dancing, something closer to the dances he’d seen while he was fighting his way through the crowds. Instead, Kuroo’s dancing is close to how he plays volleyball: Skillful, not an unnecessary movement in place. Kei’s never been one to dance at parties, but he has enough experience dancing alone in his room to at least pass like he knows what he’s doing, even if he really doesn’t.

“Do you like the music?” Kuroo asks. Their chests are pressed closely together, and Kei wonders why he hasn’t pulled away.

“Why does it matter to you?” Kei answers the question with another question, just as his shoulder bumps against Kuroo’s. Kuroo runs his palm down the length of Kei’s arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“I compiled the playlist myself. Thought I’d get your opinion, considering you seem knowledgeable enough on music.”

“And how do you know that? Do you think I just have the _face_ of somebody who likes music?”

“No,” Kuroo says, taking Kei’s general overbearing spitefulness in stride. It’s more than just a little annoying—and interesting. “I’ve seen you wearing headphones around campus. Never came up to talk to you”— Kuroo actually seems _bashful_ , and it’s an odd expression placed on his usually smug face, but Kei finds it suits him well enough—“because you always seemed… busy.”

“I don’t think that’s ever stopped you before, though. I was working in the library when you talked to me for something completely unnecessary.”

“That’s different.”

Kei raises a brow. Their bodies continue to dance, to the rhythm of the music and the beats of each other’s hearts.

“When you’re listening to music, you look like you’re… far removed, I guess, from the world. It’s interesting. _You’re_ interesting.”

Maybe, if Kei believed in romance, this would’ve been the moment he’d found himself falling for Kuroo; except Kei’s never been a romantic, and he prefers music instead of movie-perfect moments. His heart skips a beat, but he doesn’t fall for Kuroo Tetsurou; he does, however, look at Kuroo in a different light, and thinks, maybe, Kuroo Tetsurou is not so bad.

“If you think that’s enough to get you laid, you’re pathetic.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh. It’s a wild sound, but it sounds right on him, and as he stops dancing, Kei does too. Kuroo never moves his hands away from Kei, even after Kei’s returned his to his sides. “So what _would_ be enough to get me laid, Tsukki?”

“Stop calling me Tsukki, for one.”

“Why not? It’s cute. I’ve heard your friend calling you that during practice, too.” 

Fuck Yamaguchi and his nicknames, except not really, because Kei doesn’t mind being called Tsukki—by Yamaguchi, being the caveat. On Kuroo, the nickname sounds _off_ , but at the same time, Kei knows how to fight his battles: And he knows getting Kuroo to stop calling him Tsukki is a lost battle.

“Whatever,” Kei says, and the grin Kuroo wears is nothing short of shit-eating. Kei wants to knock him down a peg in his perfect row of teeth. “Can I go now,” he says, flatly.

“Hey, no. Sorry if I ruined your mood,” Kuroo’s quick to apologize, leaving Kei wondering, _what mood?_ “You haven’t answered my question, though.”

“Are you really that desperate you don’t have anyone else to bother?” Kei wouldn’t have thought Kuroo to be the type to be fixated on one freshman; Kuroo looks to be the popular type, and from Kei’s experience, the popular types are never likely to settle for one person, especially if that person barely shows any signs of them being interested. 

Kuroo runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “If you really want me gone, I’ll stop bothering you, but I was just asking.”

This was it. This should’ve been the chance for Kei to put an end to this, to let Kuroo go away to flirt with the next person to catch his eye while Kei himself finds Yamaguchi and drags him to go back to their dorm. Except, maybe, in an uncharacteristic leap of action that Kei attributes to the contagious stupidity hanging in the hair, maybe Kei wants to do the stupid thing.

Maybe Kei wants to make new experiences instead of staying cooped up in his dorm searching for new music to listen to on his free days. Maybe Kei wants to stop being responsible and do something stupid his parents would frown at, for once, like taking this frat boy’s offer and seeing where the night carries him. Kuroo doesn’t seem like the type who’d force Kei into anything Kei doesn’t want to do, and Kei’s confident enough in his ability to get out of a sticky situation, should anything happen, that Kei, in an uncharacteristic display, doesn’t tell Kuroo to fuck off, right then and there.

“No,” Kei says. “Stay.”

The corners of Kuroo’s grin turn genuine, and when he hesitantly inches his face closer towards Kei’s, Kei tugs him by his shirt and pulls him into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE THIS IS STILL SLOW BURN. JUST TRUST ME.
> 
> also, i always love hearing your thoughts! see you next time <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of this chapter is just smut in case some of you would rather skip that ;w; but we'll be getting back to our regularly scheduled plot next chap! ^__^ also, this might be last update for a while because college is starting buuuut then again i might also ignore assignments to write so who really knows [shrugging kaomoji]

Kei doesn’t know what he’d been expecting from Kuroo’s lips; he doesn’t make a habit out of looking at them, and has only paid close attention to them once, when his lips were glistened with the last droplets of tequila after doing a body shot. Something about Kuroo’s lips remind him of Kuroo’s hands, though; they’re unyielding, kissing Kei with a gentle sort of veracity, his fingers threaded in Kei’s hair, tugging on them gently, but not gentle enough that Kei can’t feel them prying his head back enough that Kuroo’s tongue slips into his mouth easily.

_Holy shit,_ Kei thinks. _I’m kissing Kuroo Tetsurou with_ tongue _at a college party, and I’m not pushing him away._

Not that this means anything. Kei isn’t a romantic, but even if he were, he doesn’t feel any of the “fireworks” he’s heard are supposed to set off when you kiss someone you _actually_ like. There’s an attraction there, a pull he doesn’t bother to deny, but that’s all it is; physical attraction. Nothing less and nothing more, and Kei’s more than content to let it stay that way. 

His life can get complicated enough without pushing Kuroo Tetsurou into the mix, anyway.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

This is when Kei should’ve said no. Kisses can be forgotten, and it’s easy to pretend they never happened; but anything more, Kei finds complications in just tossing aside, even if it’s with someone he barely knows. But Kuroo’s hands feel good on his skin and his lips meet Kei’s in a perfect rhythm, almost as if they’d practiced beforehand instead of having it be something neither of them ever expected would happen—or it was something _Kei_ never expected would happen. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Kei says, and he pretends he misses the way Kuroo’s eyes light up like he’d never expected Kei to even consider it in the first place. The look is so out of place to what Kei’s started to associate with Kuroo: smirks and leers, maybe he would’ve even expected Kuroo’s eyes to darken, the way people do when they’re particularly lustful. He hadn’t expected _that_ , but somehow enough, the look doesn’t look strange on Kuroo—it even fits a little too well. 

It almost makes Kei want to take it all back.

(He doesn’t.)

When Kuroo had said ‘get out of here’, what he’d meant was, Kei finds out barely five minutes later, an empty bedroom on the second floor of the building. It wasn’t even out of the party, which makes this funnier in his head, but it doesn’t do much to drown the quiet of his frazzled nerves; even if Kei doesn’t show it. This would be his _first_ college hook-up. He’s not one to make a big deal out of everything—he’s not Hinata—but the idea still leaves him with jitters prickling underneath the tips of his fingers and a rush of energy that leaves him stopping himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet. Kuroo closes the door behind them, locking it as he does, and Kei takes some time to get himself together, because he is Kei Tsukishima and Kei Tsukishima does _not_ lose his cool in party hookups. _Tsukki’s too cool for that!_ a voice that sounds too much like Yamaguchi exclaims in his head, and Kei barely holds back a grimace.

Music still drowns into the room, the bass thrumming along the walls in tandem, and Kei counts the beats to calm himself down. It works: His thoughts quiet, and all the jittery nerves fade into something close to anticipation.

“Sorry that took a bit,” Kuroo apologizes once he’s made sure the door is locked, stepping back into Kei’s comfort zone and circling the pad of his thumb on the underside of Kei’s jaw. Kei wonders if it’s custom for him to be so—gentle? “Had some bad experiences of people walking in if I didn’t lock the door.”

Kei squints up at him. “So you do this often.”

“Why, are you jealous?”

“No, just needed my suspicions confirmed.”

“And what, exactly, are your suspicions of me, Tsukki?”

Unlike before, when the nickname had been on Kuroo’s tongue as a way to tease Kei and rile him up, the way Kuroo says Tsukki is elaborate and slow; his voice has turned into a low purr, and Kei shivers. “Nothing good.”

Kuroo pouts. “Is my image really that negative in your head?”

“Yes.”

“Mean,” Kuroo says, no bite at all in his words. He laughs, instead, and uses his index finger to trace the little spot below Kei’s lashlines. Kei relaxes into his touch; Kuroo’s purposefully being gentle and slow, leaving enough room and time for Kei to back out any time he wants to. But Kei doesn’t want to back out—he’s not going to lose face, and more importantly, he’s not having as terrible of a time as he thought he’d be having. “You want to do this, right?” Kuroo asks, one more time, making sure.

Kei rolls his eyes. “You’re taking too long,” he answers, and crushes their lips together in a searing kiss. 

Their teeth only gnash into each other’s once before they fix the tempo of their lips, and by the second time Kei’s leaning in, they’ve re-learned each other’s quirks, the way they each kiss; Kei remembers Kuroo’s habit of choosing to set the pace slow, just so he can take his time in nipping and licking as much of Kei’s lips as he can. Likewise, Kuroo’s adapted to the few seconds Kei devotes in every kiss to nibble and swipe his tongue over Kuroo’s lower lip. 

“Kuroo,” Kei croaks out between kisses, much to Kuroo’s whining as he chases after Kei’s lips again, his hand cradling the back of Kei’s head in his palm. “Did you bring lube?” He reluctantly pulls away, leaning his head back whenever Kuroo tries to catch him in another kiss, hoping he doesn’t look as flushed as his cheeks feel. It’s not that Kei’s shy about kissing, but it’s been a while, and Kuroo’s a good kisser; even if Kei doesn’t feel anything (positive) for him in particular, he can admit that much.

“Wait,” Kuroo says, reluctantly prying himself away from Kei to open the drawer right next to the bed. He ruffles his hand in there, and when he doesn’t find the shape he’s looking for, peers closely into the compartment. “Shit,” he mutters. “Bokuto must’ve moved it. We could—”

“I am _not_ using spit as lube.”

Kuroo pouts, and Kei’s barely able to contain his look of disgust. “Kuroo, no.”

“Okay, okay. You didn’t have to tell me twice. There _are_ still other things we can do, though.”

“Like…?”

“I’ll give you head,” Kuroo offers, and something must’ve shown in Kei’s face, because he’s quick to ask, rather incredulously, “Tsukki, you don’t like blowjobs?” like the concept of someone disliking them’s foreign to his head.

Kei shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.” He’s not willing to share the fact that he’s never actually had his dick sucked before, because admitting it to Kuroo feels a lot like being honest and open, and that’s just not what Kei’s trying to do. “I just wasn’t expecting it,” he mumbles, glancing away. 

“Well,” Kuroo says, and corners Kei against the wall, both his arms trapping Kei's head in a poor imitation of a kabe-don. If anyone catches him, Kei Tsukishima, in a kabe-don… Kei might actually die. “If you change your mind, you could still say no.” He noses the tip of Tsukishima’s ear, and the gesture is strangely comforting.

“Just get on with it.” Kei wraps his arms around Kuroo’s waist, squeezing him slightly to tell him that no, he’s not going anywhere, so they might as well proceed. (He’d say it himself, but Kei knows whatever he says will come out as either: a) Sarcastic, or b) Mechanical.)

Kuroo takes his time, working his way from Kei’s ears to his neck: He swipes his tongue down the line of Kei’s ear, something he never thought he’d have liked, but doesn’t feel as bad as he’d have thought—still, Kei prefers it when Kuroo’s lips are on his neck, teeth grazing and biting soft enough not to hurt him, but hard enough that Kei knows he’ll have to borrow Yachi’s concealer to stop Yamaguchi from asking questions tomorrow. 

Their hands are under each other’s shirts, Kei’s only exploring the expanse of Kuroo’s stomach, while Kuroo’s are more confident, rolling Kei’s nipple under his thumb. Kei’d never considered that he had sensitive buds—then again, it’s not like he made it a habit to experiment. It turns out he does, however, and Kuroo’s thumb, calloused and warm and rough but just right, is enough to leave him panting, using up all of his willpower not to squirm from how sensitive—from how _good_ he feels.

“You like that?” Kuroo teases him, applying more pressure in his thumb. Kei lets out a strangled sound, and glares at Kuroo through his flush.

“Get on with it.”

“You’re so demanding,” Kuroo chastises, not that Kei cares.

Kei leans back against the wall as Kuroo kneels before him, deft fingers undoing the buttons of his jeans in quick succession. Kei tries to run his own fingers down to help, only to have Kuroo pushing him away, muttering something about how all Kei needs to do is relax and get that stick out his ass. 

In response, Kei flips him off, but even flipping the bird at Kuroo doesn’t change the fact that Kei’s hard—even if he doesn’t _personally_ find this the most appealing place for him to be, his dick very obviously disagrees, fully interested in the events unfolding before his eyes. 

Kuroo takes him in his mouth shortly after he tugs down Kei’s boxers; Kuroo’s mouth encircles his tip, lips pursed as he hollows his cheeks and sucks. Kei groans, both at the wet heat surrounding his cock and the fact that Kuroo’s a tease, taking his time to lick and taste Kei’s tip before he even runs his tongue down his shaft. Kei takes a fistful of Kuroo’s hair in his hand, tugging at it with enough force that Kuroo’s forced to take more of him into his mouth—if it leaves Kuroo spluttering, Kei doesn’t care, because as far as he’s concerned, Kuroo had brought this onto himself for purposefully teasing Kei like that.

“Fuck you,” Kei says, when Kuroo takes Kei out of his mouth, a trail of spit and pre-cum following his lips, hanging over Kei’s dick. Kuroo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting with mischief when he looks at Kei, like he knows something Kei doesn’t.

“That would’ve been the agenda if Bokuto hadn’t taken away the lube, yeah,” Kuroo agrees, taking it in stride—he seems to take everything in stride, now that Kei thinks about it, from Kei’s prickly demeanor to his dick (quite literally). 

Kei doesn’t quite know what to say to that, and it’s not very often Kei’s left speechless. He doesn’t have to worry about that for long, though, considering Kuroo takes Kei back in his mouth, this time pushing Kei’s cock to the back of his throat—and Kuroo’s mouth is so, _so_ tight, and he runs his tongue over the bottom of Kei’s length the best he can through a mouthful of cock, his eyes meeting Kei’s as he glances up at him. Kei can’t take his eyes off Kuroo—not when he looks _so_ good like that, and Kei finds himself burying his fingers deeper into Kuroo’s hair, matting down the spiked ends and thrusting his hip into Kuroo’s willing, pliant lips.

“ _Fuck_ , Kuroo,” Kei grunts, croaked and breathy, and with everything that’s going on, it doesn’t take much longer than several thrusts into Kuroo’s mouth—while Kuroo makes a sick, squelching sound several times, he’d kept going, which had stopped Kei from pulling out even through his worries—and Kuroo’s quiet, strangled moans for Kei to come, shooting lines of his semen down Kuroo’s throat.

Kuroo’s eyes briefly close as he swallows Kei’s load, and when they open, Kei’s breathing hard, looking down at Kuroo with a look that’s impossible to decipher. Kuroo slowly pulls his lips off of Kei, and before Kei even realizes it, he’s wiping off the traces of cum and spit from Kuroo, cleaning his mouth and chin with the pad of his thumb.

“Good?” Kuroo asks. His voice is weak, and he lets out a soft cough. It’s for that reason Kei stops himself from answering sarcastically, because considering Kuroo had just literally _sucked his dick_ , maybe he can cut the guy some slack. As a treat.

“Yeah,” Kei says, completely ignoring the way Kuroo’s lips paste on a genuine smile. He can’t understand him at all. “Lie down on the bed. It’s my turn to help you out.” Kei pretends he’s more experienced than his actually is, by trying to sound as confident as he can; he hopes Kuroo can’t tell this is his first casual hook-up with a guy. He hopes Kuroo can’t tell this is his first time being with a guy _ever_. Kei’s not a stranger to his preferences, but this is the first time he’s ever tried anything with another boy—and while it’s different from the soft, supple curves of a girl, it’s not so strange, and everything feels like it’s coming naturally to Kei.

“Aren’t we demanding?” Kuroo asks, but doesn’t actually protest as he jumps—literally _jumps_ —onto the bed, before turning over to recline on the mattress, his elbows supporting him as his back leans against the pillows. He wriggles his brows at Kei, who gets on the bed _without_ jumping on it, like a normal person would. “What are you going to do?”

“I can’t, um.” Kei makes a vague, crass notion meant to imitate a blowjob, and it makes Kuroo laugh.

“It’s okay, just do whatever you’re comfortable with,” Kuroo reassures. It does the job, because at least now Kei’s more confident with his movements, leaning down to place his arms around Kuroo’s head and his legs between Kuroo’s own before he lifts Kuroo’s shirt up to his neck. Kuroo takes it under his chin, which makes for a funny picture, but Kei doesn’t dwell on it, choosing to focus on trailing soft kisses down Kuroo’s stomach. He moves to a sitting position once he’s going low enough that his arms are having difficulty supporting him, and tugs Kuroo’s pants down to his knees.

Kuroo’s looking at him through half-lidded eyes, lower lip gnawed in—nervousness? Anticipation? Kei can’t tell. He doesn’t know Kuroo very well, after all. “You’re really hot, you know that?”

Kei doesn’t blush, though he does crack a smile. It’s not very genuine, as is the case with most of his smiles, but it’s not a sneer, so it must count for something.

“I know,” is all Kei says, before he takes his palm and places it on top of Kuroo’s bulge, palming him through his underwear. Kei’s grip is firm, but slow, and he kneads down with small, purposeful movements.

Kuroo’s eyes slip shut and he lets out a quiet sigh. Kei takes this as his cue to go a little faster, his thumb stroking over Kuroo for several seconds before he replaces it with his palm, going back to the kneading motions he’d used before. Kuroo groans, and blinks an eye open to glare at Kei. “Stop being a tease.”

“Now look who’s being demanding,” Kei says in response, and he’s tempted to keep teasing Kuroo out of spite. Except maybe that’d be too much considering how hard Kuroo is, and Kei’s not _that_ shitty of a person. Most times, anyway.

He tugs down Kuroo’s underwear, letting it pool around his knees; then Kei takes the base of Kuroo’s cock in his grip, stroking it up and down with a gradual tempo. He starts off slow, but when Kuroo starts thrusting against his hand, Kei goes a little faster—and then faster—and faster, still. 

“Kei,” Kuroo moans, and Kei’s hand _freezes._

“Don’t call me that,” Kei says, and Kuroo nods, hasty and quick.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Just—don’t stop. I won’t call you that again.”

So Kei carries on, rubbing his thumb over Kuroo’s slit, feeling his fingers meet something wet and sticky as he takes his time there. Kuroo’s lips are parted and he keeps letting out soft, breathy sighs, usually coupled with lewd moans when Kei’s fingers, long and smooth and fleeting enough for it to be a whisper, run down his length.

Kuroo comes soon after Kei closes his fist fully around him, and he pumps up and down Kuroo’s cock, firm and fast. Kuroo ruts into Kei’s grip, his thrusts meeting Kei’s pumps, and it doesn’t take long for Kuroo’s movements to stutter and streaks of white, hot cum splatter across his stomach and all over Kei’s hand.

“Tissues are next to the bed,” Kuroo manages to mumble, in the immediate haze after his orgasm. Kei finds the box of tissues and takes several sheets, wiping the aftermarks of Kuroo’s cum from his hand.

Below him, Kuroo pouts. “Tsukki, you’re not gonna wipe off my stomach?”

Kei, once his hands are cleaned enough, chucks the box of tissues at Kuroo’s head.

Infuriatingly enough, Kuroo catches it in his grip, instead. “Clean up after yourself, dumbass.

Kei stands up before Kuroo does, ready to leave the room and reget his life decisions before pretending that nothing ever happened, when Kuroo’s hand takes his and stops Kei in his place.

Warily, Kei turns his head. “What is it?”

“You don’t want to stay? We could just cuddle and you can go home tomorrow,” Kuroo offers. “The bed’s pretty comfortable.”

Kei’s nose wrinkles, because having a quickie with Kuroo is one thing, but staying the night— _cuddling_ —is something else entirely. So he shakes his head; watches Kuroo’s face falls. “No. I’m going home. This was a one time thing. But… thank you,” Kei adds, an afterthought. It must be uncharacteristic enough of him that Kuroo actually looks like he’s _broken_ for a second, and Kei nearly jabs his waist, just to check if Kuroo.exe is still working.

“Alright, suit yourself.” Kuroo sighs, and crosses his arms behind his back, leaning his head into his criss-crossed palms. “Oh, hey. Can I have your number?”

And Kei wants to say no.

He really does, except they might need each other’s numbers for volleyball anyway, and maybe, Kei reasons, having each other’s numbers is going to be practical. That’s what he reasons with himself when he exchanges contact information with Kuroo before Kei gets dressed, unlocks the door, and leaves, never sparing a single look back.

When Yamaguchi finds him and asks him where he’s been, frazzled and panicking, all Kei does is shrug.

* * *

A weeek later, when Kei’s up at 11PM reading through his textbook and feeling himself getting increasingly annoyed, his phone rings with a notification, and he frowns when he sees the name of the person who’d texted him this late.

**KUROO**

heyy, this is tsukki?

**TSUKISHIMA**

It’s Tsukishima. 

**KUROO**

w/e same diff

anyway though

u up? ;)

And Kei can’t believe this, can’t believe he’s actually going back on his own words on this being a one time thing over something as cliche and stupid as a ‘you up?’ text, but his textbook’s so _boring_ and Kei’s life is boring and maybe Kuroo Tetsurou is the person who’ll make his life a little more interesting. 

So he closes his book, packs a small bag, and heads for Kuroo’s dorm, dodging Yamaguuchi’s questions and throwing out a half-assed lie about a late-night study group; telling Yamaguchi it’s nothing, and the study group’s just a one-time thing before a pop quiz.

Yamaguchi doesn’t look like he believes him, and Kei’s not sure he believes himself, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow burn fwbs to lovers ahha...ahaha...h...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i'm not the kind of person who likes forcing fics to be longer just for the heck of it but while i was writing this some things brewed in my head and i got some ideas that miight make the fic?? longer?? the characters rly just went fuck the outline :/ lmk if u guys are cool with that! ^__^

What was meant to be a one time-thing becomes routine, and Kei finds himself, more nights than not, spending his evenings at Kuroo’s dorm, to both his utter self-loathing (nothing against Kuroo himself, but Kei knows this wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did and now  _ he can’t stop _ ) and Yamaguchi’s simultaneous increasing worry and suspicion.

“The study group again?” Yamaguchi asks, used to Kei’s routine of leaving their room at nearly ungodly hours of the night. Neither of them say anything about how there are no immediate quizzes in their classes, but Kei knows Yamaguchi suspects something, and is just waiting for Kei to tell him. It leaves him with a steady wave of guilt, knowing he’s keeping something from his best friend, but it’s not like he’s hiding anything important.  _ Nothing _ is going on between him and Kuroo—that’s why he’s keeping it from Yamaguchi.

Kei knows how Yamaguchi feels about relationships; knows that Yamaguchi wants Kei to be in one, because supposedly, relationships are all well and great and Kei’s supposed to come out of it a better version of himself. Even if Kei stresses there is absolutely  _ nothing _ romantic going on between him and Kuroo, that everything they do is purely physical and lust and not a single ounce of love, Kei doesn’t want to see Yamaguchi’s eyes fall, doesn’t want to inevitably crush his expectations when nothing happens between him and Kuroo, after all. 

“Yeah,” Kei says, lying through his teeth because he’s a lying liar who lies. Yamaguchi clearly doesn’t believe him, if the way his face falls is of any indication. Knowing Yamaguchi, he’s wondering why Kei doesn’t trust him enough with something, and it leaves Kei feeling shittier than he already does: Not only is he Kuroo Tetsurou’s dirty little secret, he’s keeping things from his best friend since childhood, too. Kei Tsukishima is a real piece of work, and he’s not even halfway through his first college semester.

Yamaguchi’s staring at him with a look Kei’s not sure he can decipher. Kei has never been much of a people’s person, and that much is obvious—that’s partly why Yamaguchi is probably his only friend. Despite his mediocre people skills, though, Kei knows enough that the look Yamaguchi’s giving him’s closely linked to disappointment, and Kei’s regret claws deeper up his throat. 

He’ll tell Yamaguchi when all of this is over.

He will. Just—not now, but Kei vows to himself, as he leaves with the lie on his tongue and guilt resting squarely on his shoulders, that he’ll tell Yamaguchi the truth one day; it just isn’t today.

(Even with the promise Kei makes to himself, though, it does nothing to dissuade his ever-growing shame.)

* * *

“I think they’re starting to catch on.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

Kei raises a brow, completely unimpressed by Kuroo’s flippant response. “You know there’s only so many times we can take turns sneaking out of the broom closet until somebody notices something, right?” he says, in a tone that spells out ‘are you dense?’ in bolded, capital letters in Kuroo’s face. On anyone else, it would’ve elicited some sort of offense, because Kei is Kei, and while he isn’t the best with being  _ kind _ to people, Kei is an expert—worthy enough to have an honorary, imaginary degree—at riling them up. Annoying them.  _ Antagonizing _ them.

On Kuroo, though, the only reaction he gets is a laugh, and it’s not even the snide sort of laugh Kei’s all-too-familiar with himself. Kuroo’s laugh is real and free, as if he actually thinks Kei’s antagonizing is  _ endearing _ rather than annoying. It isn’t a reaction Kei’s used to getting—or has ever gotten at all, and it only adds one more reason to Kei’s growing list of why he should end whatever it is he has going with Kuroo before the list grows too long for him to snip.

“Then let them catch on,” Kuroo says, the perfect image of someone without a single care in the world. Kei absolutely cannot relate. “It’s not like they would care.”

And Kuroo  _ does _ have a point, because aside from the day of the first volleyball practice where Bokuto’s shouting had garnered Kei false accusations—as of then, anyway—of him sleeping with his captain, no one on the team cared enough to even bother Kei about it; it was a far cry from how he’d expected situations like these would’ve been treated if he were back in high school, but there was one notable difference between Kei’s volleyball team in high school and his team in college: If in high school he would’ve been the only one having secret liaisons with somebody on the team, in college, Kei’s almost  _ ninety _ percent sure that him and Kuroo aren’t the only ones using the broom closet for quickies after practice.

Seriously—Kei’s absolutely  _ positive _ he’s caught Bokuto and Akaashi with switched shirts once after they claimed to clean the closet together, and Kei isn’t sure if the others have also noticed but don’t care, or if they’re just dense, because how could you get any more  _ obvious _ ? The two weren’t even the same size—they were  _ far _ from that, and if no one else noticed how ridiculous Bokuto looked in a shirt that was five sizes too small for him… Kei’s not sure if that’s even possible. It really isn’t.

“Doesn’t mean  _ I _ don’t,” Kei mutters, low enough that only he can hear what he’s saying. Kuroo’s brows furrow, a silent question for Kei to repeat what he’d just said, and Kei shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

Because it is. It’s nothing. His worries are nothing.

Him and Kuroo are nothing.

Kuroo doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push—he never does, because that’s just the person Kuroo is. Somehow, this both relieves and frustrates Kei.

“I don’t have anything due tomorrow. You want to come over later?” Kuroo asks, after he’s finished tugging his shirt back on. Kei’s already finished changing back, leaning against the cupboard with his arms crossed squarely over his chest, permanent frown tattooed back on his lips. 

“We  _ literally _ just had sex.” Kei’s frown deepens.

“Not to fuck!” Kuroo’s quick to add, and when Kei only looks more disbelieving, Kuroo sighs, running a hand over his hair with jutted, pouty lips. Maybe the purpose had been to look cute, but on Kuroo, Kei thinks he just looks ridiculous. “We could just watch a movie.”

“I don’t think we have the same taste in movies.”

“Tsukki, you don’t even know what movies I like.”

And then, dryly: “I can guess.” As Kuroo pouts (again), Kei says, “You look ugly when you pout.” This only makes Kuroo pout  _ harder _ , and Kei sighs, regretting that he’d said anything at all. 

“Come on, just one movie. I’ll let you change it halfway if it  _ really _ sucks.”

Kei has a bad feeling about this, but he’s made bad decision after bad decision recently, and he knows, logically, he should say no—but then again, it’s not as if Kei’s been very logical recently, either, and he knows there’ll come a time when he regrets even entertaining Kuroo with everything, but apparently, right now, that isn’t the time.

“Fine,” Kei says, begrudgingly. He looks away just in time to avoid seeing the way Kuroo’s whole face lights up in a way that  _ never _ happens.

“You want to hang out first before heading to my place?”

Even in the way Kuroo says it, it’s obvious he doesn’t expect Kei to say yes; and he’s right about that, at least. 

Kei maneuvers around him to get to the door blocking him from the exit, and opens the door. Before he walks out, he says, quietly but loud enough for Kuroo to hear him, “Don’t push your luck.”

That gets him a laugh.

* * *

Kei doesn’t want to say it’s weird, going to Kuroo’s place with the intentions of doing something other than screwing around, but it’s  _ weird _ . He’d never paid too much attention to the way Kuroo’s dorm looked like before, always too occupied with other things to really keep a keen eye on the little details, but now that he’s looking, he sees all the little quirks that makes the dorm room unabashedly Kuroo Tetsurou’s: The volleyball on the floor, the pictures strewn around of family and him and his friends (he notes there’s a constant presence there, a guy with hair that reminds him of chocolate pudding with flan on top of it), down to the artfully messy way little knick-knacks are scattered all across the room.

Everything about this place  _ screams _ Kuroo, and Kei doesn’t know why he’d taken so long notice—and doesn’t want to think about how he knows enough about Kuroo now to recognize all the little details that add to Kuroo’s touch.

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” Kuroo’s hair is wet, water dripping from the forcefully mopped down spikes still glistening from his recent shower, and his black shirt sticks closely to his skin. Kei doesn’t know why Kuroo’s comfortable wearing a shirt that hugs him when they’re just watching a movie, and Kei can’t relate—he has one of his more oversized grey sweaters on, a purchase his mother initially made for Akiteru before Akiteru made a Facebook update just a day before she planned to sent it wearing the exact same sweater she’d purchased. 

_ I didn’t think I’d show up, either,  _ Kei nearly says. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Like the aliens?”

“Aliens don’t exist, stop sounding like Oikawa,” Kei mumbles, making it clear he isn’t very fond of one of the setters on their team—a good setter, Kei grudgingly admits, but  _ still _ annoying. “I hope you didn’t choose a movie about aliens,” he says, gaze narrowing in suspicion.

“Geez, who do you think I am?”

Kei doesn’t breathe out a sigh of relief, because he just doesn’t do those things, but it’s close. “What  _ are _ we watching, then?” He asks, still suspicious of a hidden intention.

At this, Kuroo grins, and proudly shows off the screen of his phone—the Rotten Tomatoes page of the first Jurassic Park movie, and Kei has a very, very hard time trying not to let any excitement show. It’s not easy, holding back the widening of his eyes or the curve of his lips threatening to break out, because while Kei has experience covering his emotions with contempt, he’s not well-versed in the skillset of covering up  _ excitement _ . It’s just not an emotion Kei’s familiar with, because Kei Tsukishima is supposed to be cool. Calm, collected, whatever—the side of him that gets excited over dinosaurs and has facts ready to spout from the tip of his tongue is a side reserved for his family and Yamaguchi, and even for the latter, it’s only due to years of friendship and him stubbornly wringing his way into Kei’s private life.

“…Neat,” is all Kei manages to say, like an embarrassing squeal of excitement hadn’t just threatened to make it out of his lips. 

Kei is confused.

He’d been expecting to come out of this with a valid excuse as to why he wouldn’t watch another movie with Kuroo again, ever, because he was counting on Kuroo to have chosen a ridiculous movie; like a bad romcom, or some blockbuster that flopped in the cinemas, just for shits and giggles. He hadn’t expected what he’d do if Kuroo had chosen a movie he actually enjoys, but there’s a silver lining, at least: Kei’s adaptability.

“I bought some popcorn! It’s the extra buttery one,” Kuroo explains as he gets a bag of popcorn out of his volleyball practice bag, and the smell wafts through the room, reaching Kei’s senses; it smells  _ good _ , and Kei’s stomach rumbles because he hadn’t eaten anything since practice. “Here, you can take it.” Kuroo throws the bag Kei’s way, not worrying about the popcorn dropping, with Kei’s honed-by-blocking reflexes. Kei doesn’t hug the popcorn to his chest, but he does put one in his mouth once he’s settled on the ratty old couch, the butter hitting tartly on his tongue.

“How are you still fit,” Kei says rather than asks, because the popcorn is so salty and buttery that it feels like he’s snacking on cholesterol in a bag. “How.”

“Volleyball,” Kuroo answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It probably is, but Kei has to wonder about Kuroo’s personal eating habits now, and then Kei also wonders why he even cares in the first place. “Have you watched this before?”

Only half a million times. “I have.” Kei puts the popcorn between him and Kuroo, wiping the grease off his shorts. 

“And am I gonna have to worry about you changing the film?”

This takes Kei several seconds before he answers, and when he does so, the word parts reluctantly from his tongue. “No,” Kei admits. “It’s a good movie.”

Kuroo’s grin widens, and Kei’s almost tempted to take it back, dinosaurs be damned. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“What do you mean?”

Kuroo turns sheepish, then, pointedly looking away from Kei when he says, “I may have asked your friend about what movies he thinks you might like.”

“You asked  _ Yamaguchi _ ?”

Yamaguchi’s a dead man, but that’s only if Kei himself manages to survive Yamaguchi’s silent questions about  _ why _ their captain had even bothered asking Yamaguchi about what movies Kei likes in the first place. Kei’s best friend is smart; on literally any other occasion, maybe this would be a fact Kei takes in stride, because Kei refuses to associate himself with anyone stupid—like the Idiot Duo Hinata and his best friend Kageyama. But now,  _ because _ Yamaguchi is smart, Kei doesn’t doubt his ability to have pieced the situation together by now.

Which leads to a whole other set of problems, namely reassuring Yamaguchi that it’s not like Kei doesn’t  _ trust _ him, but Kei is Kei, and that means Kei’s just the type of person who likes to keep things quiet, even if it’s from his best friend; he may have considered the negative repercussions if Yamaguchi ever found out about him and Kuroo, but that’d been an  _ if _ . Now it was an inevitable conversation looming over his shoulder, and Kei really, really doesn’t know if he wants to go home tonight and deal with that conversation immediately.

Something must’ve shown on his face, because Kuroo’s happy expression is replaced by one of worry, and he gently shakes Kei by his shoulder. “Tsukki?”

And Kei  _ blanches _ , because that nickname just reminds him exactly of the person he’d been trying hard not to think about, and the wrinkles on Kuroo’s forehead deepen when he notices the unease written all over Kei’s body language. Carefully, slowly, he leans his forehead against Kei’s, both of his hands softly placed on Kei’s shoulders. 

Kei doesn’t want to lean into Kuroo. Kei doesn’t want to be comforted by Kuroo. Kei doesn’t want to  _ depend _ on Kuroo. Kei doesn’t  _ need _ Kuroo and his reassurance, doesn’t need Kuroo Tetsurou and his stupid, comforting warmth.

(He leans his forehead against Kuroo’s, anyway, and repeats in his head that this doesn’t mean  _ anything _ . Kuroo’s just worried about Kei, and that isn’t a big deal. Kuroo’s his captain. If something fucked up Kei’s game, it’d affect the whole team. There’s no meaning behind it—behind this.)

“Did I say something wrong?”

Yes. No. Kei doesn’t know anymore.

“I think we should just watch the movie,” Kei says, prying himself away from Kuroo, shifting further away from him and closer towards his side of the couch. He rests his hand on the arm of the couch, and pretends he’d rather do that than get close to Kuroo again. Close is dangerous.

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, but Kei sees, easily, that he’s still worried. His smile never comes back, not even when Kei tries to lighten the mood—in a way that’s very uncharacteristic of Kei, if only to get Kuroo’s attention off of his slip-up—by throwing a particularly buttery piece of popcorn at Kuroo’s chest. 

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Kei asks, when they’re nearly halfway into the movie and Kei’s anxiety still weighs on his stomach, even when he’s trying his best to enjoy one of his favorite movies. And because Kei never asks for favors, never asks for anything, this snaps Kuroo into alert, pausing the movie like Kei’d just asked Kuroo for a loan of over a thousand dollars.

“What’s up?”

“Is your couch free tonight?” Kei doesn’t grit this through his teeth, but to stop himself from doing that, from biting out his request, had been more trouble than the question is worth. Kei doesn’t like asking for favors, doesn’t like owing people; especially not when he doesn’t know them very well, which is valid for practically everybody in his life who aren’t: a) his family, or b) Yamaguchi. But his own house is hundreds of miles away, and Kei’s not sure if he’s ready to talk to Yamaguchi yet, to tell his best friend just what it is that he’s been hiding from him, so he resorts to the second best person, the guy he knows well enough, but at the same time, not well at all.

Kuroo’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly, and he peers at Kei the way a cat would. “You know you could just take the bed. I don’t mind sleeping with you.” When the pun doesn’t earn him so much as a glare, Kuroo falters. “You sure everything’s okay?”

“Not really.” Kei shrugs. He pries the remote off Kuroo’s slackened grasp, and hits play again, anyway.

The movie is over all-too-soon, but Kei hadn’t been able to concentrate on its latter half, too busy trying to ignore Kuroo’s constant, worried glances. It’s  _ scaring _ him, maybe just a bit, because Kuroo isn’t the type to worry so outwardly; Kei’s been around him enough for the past few weeks that he knows Kuroo’s the type to mask his worry, letting it show without really making it clear. The fact that he’s making his worry obvious this time only makes Kei feel like there’s another thing for him to worry about, but he doesn’t know  _ what _ . 

“Sleep on the bed,” Kuroo finally says, once the credits roll, and Kei’d been preparing himself to stand up to look for a blanket. “I don’t snore, and my couch’s too old for you  _ not _ to feel it in the morning.”

Kei scowls. “I don’t want to owe you any favors.”

“Tsukki, this isn’t a favor. I’m just saying your back’s going to regret it if you slept on the couch tonight.”

And Kei, too tired to put up more of a fight when his worries keep stacking and swirling on his mind, grudgingly nods; lets himself walk towards the familiar sight of Kuroo’s bedroom, and it’s late enough that Kei barely thinks twice before he lies down, tugging the blanket up to his chest. It’s his worrying making him soft, Kei thinks. It’s just because he’s too worried about coming up with the words of what he can say to Yamaguchi that the thought of spending the night in Kuroo’s bed—just to sleep, which still sounds like a milestone because before, Kei’d never stuck around—doesn’t seem too bad. 

_ Excuses, excuses, _ something chides in his head, and Kei stomps the thought away. He doesn’t need that, not tonight.

“You can say no,” Kuroo says, and Kei’s about to say something about how he isn’t in the mood to fuck, but before he can say anything, Kuroo says the rest of his statement: “Do you want to cuddle tonight? I’ve heard it helps. It does with my best friend, at least.” Kei blinks, mouth opening and closing twice; that’s not what he’d expected. The suggestion, something that would’ve sounded flirty and sinuous on Kuroo at any other time, sounds unexpectedly innocent and genuine, and Kei must’ve been staring because Kuroo coughs and looks away, a small blush forming on his cheeks. “Sorry. Too much?”

And to his own surprise, Kei shakes his head. “It’s… okay.” He doesn’t know how to say that he’s never cuddled anyone who wasn’t his brother before, and even that had been when he was ten; still, saying that appeases Kuroo, who starts grinning the way Kei’s familiar with, all teeth and sharp edges. The sight is oddly comforting. 

“Great, because you’re taking away my bolster’s spot. That’s the least you could do to make up for it,” Kuroo sings, and Kei rolls his eyes.

When Kei drifts off to sleep that night, Kuroo’s lashes tickling his forehead and their arms wrapped closely around each other, Kei wonders if this is a usual thing for Kuroo: Because it isn’t for him, and that much should be obvious to anyone who knows Kei. But for Kuroo, popular and charming and witty? Kei wouldn’t doubt he’s the only one Kuroo’d cuddle. Would watch movies with. Would fuck.

The thought of that shouldn’t bother Kei, because he doesn’t care about Kuroo enough to—he  _ doesn’t _ . Still, Kei can’t shrug off the laden weight that gets heavier and heavier in his head whenever he thinks of Kuroo with another, and only lets himself fall asleep once Kuroo tugs him closer, doing more to shield Kei from the coming winter’s warm than their shared blanket.

(Kei refuses to think about that again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ruh roh


End file.
